~22~

IT WAS WELL AFTER 7.00 P.M. by the time Jack reached Surry Hills.

‘You made it,’ said Kim, as she opened the front door of the Crown Street terrace.

‘Just.’

She looked at him closer. ‘Oh my God! Are you okay?’

‘Some aspirin would be lovely.’

‘Come in, come in.’

Jack followed her down the hall. The house was cluttered but clean. There was a mountain bike against the wall, some cardboard boxes, and a wooden chair with a pot plant on the seat. Beside it, an old dressmaker’s dummy, with pins stuck in it here and there like a giant voodoo doll.

‘That Shane?’

She nodded. ‘I glued his face on but it fell off with the humidity.’

At the end of the hall a shallow step led down into the kitchen, a 1960s relic, all laminex and linoleum and pastelgreen cupboards. Kim pointed to a circular dining table.

‘Take a seat. I think there’s something in here.’ She rummaged through a drawer.

‘Got anything alcoholic?’

She turned, gave him a sympathetic look. ‘I think Shane’s got something in his room.’

‘Tall glass,’ he said. ‘About a metre ought to do it.’

‘Do you need a doctor?’

‘Just a holiday. Want to come?’

Kim smiled. She had changed out of her earlier outfit: now she was wearing a red-and-blue-check Western shirt with pearl press-studs, and a black leather miniskirt, her slim legs smooth and endless below. Still the red Converse on her feet. She handed Jack a glass of water and a couple of tablets. ‘Nurofen. Wait here.’

Kim went back out into the hallway. Jack heard her hollow footsteps up the stairs, and then floorboards creaking above his head. He wondered if it was a good idea to have come back to Kim’s place. Did Kablunak’s boys know her? Or Lewis? They probably all knew that Shane lived here, so there was always the chance someone might come over for a look. Maybe. Jack slumped in the chair, the day in his lap like a wet dog. From now on, he was swinging first. He washed down the tablets.

Kim came back holding up a bottle of Chivas Regal.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’re very talented.’

She bowed with a flourish, then collected some glasses from a cupboard. She sat opposite Jack at the dining table.

‘So what’s the next move?’ she asked, handing Jack a Scotch.

‘Got any cigarettes?’

Kim reached for her bag hooked on the back of her chair, opened it and tossed him a crumpled packet. He shook for a cigarette. None came out. He inspected the soft-pack more closely, stuck his finger in it, then sighed. The gods really wanted him to stay off the darts.

‘Is it empty?’

Jack nodded. Drank a good length of Scotch.

‘Come on,’ she said, eagerly. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Why would you want to get involved?’

‘Don’t know. Nice eyes, maybe.’

For once, the flush to Jack’s face was not the result of a blow to the body.

‘I love your shirt, by the way.’ She reached over and felt the printed cotton between her fingertips. There were small peacocks on it, pale rose and green and cream over blue. Plus a little blood now. It was a nice shirt, left over from when Jack used to have the odd dollar to spend.

‘Beautiful fabric. Soft as a favourite handkerchief.’

‘Just don’t blow your nose on it.’

Her hand lingered a moment on Jack’s sleeve. Her touch was soft, her fingers gentle, feeling the fabric as though it was telling her something. ‘I’ve got some shirts that would look great on you,’ she said, her voice lower, a trace of huskiness at the edges.

‘Fashion designer?’

‘That’s me. Paris, London, New York. Bondi market stall.’

The Scotch was putting colour back into his cheeks. Kim was putting it everywhere else.

‘The book Shane wanted you to pick up from me,’ he said. ‘Ever mention it before?’

Kim leaned back and crossed her arms and frowned. ‘No. Has it got something to do with those guys?’

Jack brought the glass of Scotch to his lips, paused. ‘It’s their book.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Shane stole it from them and now they want it back.’

‘So how did you get it?’

‘Shane sent it to me.’

‘What?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘What kind of book is it?’

Jack stretched his neck carefully. ‘The kind that attracts guns.’

‘God.’ Kim slumped her shoulders. She stared out into the back yard for a moment. ‘So you’ve got the book that everybody wants?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘More complications.’ Jack sighed. He felt suddenly exhausted. ‘It’s still in the mail.’

‘Didn’t he just send me to pick it up?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Kim was thinking. Her eyes held Jack’s.

‘I’m being punished in this life so that I may attain peace in the next,’ he said.

She reached over and poured more Scotch into his glass. ‘So the book’s in the mail and they want you to give it to them as soon as it arrives? Or else?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘So just give it to them. Who cares about Shane?’

‘Believe me, I’m not worried about Shane.’ Jack delicately felt the back of his head. Blood was crusted in his hair. ‘The problem is they’re not the only them who want it.’

Kim grimaced on Jack’s behalf. She leaned back, thoughtful. The chair creaked beneath her. After a moment, she angled her head slightly and gazed at Jack. ‘How much is it worth?’

He picked up his glass, swirled it. ‘Whims would not be a financial strain.’

‘Well … why don’t you keep it? Take the money and run?’

Jack grinned. ‘It’s an option. After today I’ve been giving it some thought.’

‘And?’

‘Too complicated. It’s still a famous stolen antiquarian book, not actual money yet. And it’s all too rushed. You need time to come up with a good plan. Contacts.’ Jack remembered driving his old boss Ziggy Brandt around. His activities were often illegal, often complicated, but never rushed. And he was still out there, not rushing, which was probably proof enough of the formula.

‘Maybe you just need some help?’ Kim looked at Jack, helpfully. ‘You need to jump on things when they come by.’

‘What if you’re on a moving train over a deep gorge?’

She shrugged. ‘I just think that life is full of possibilities. And when they come … jump.’

Cicadas started up outside, the noise instantly loud and penetrating, as though they had dropped the clutches on a thousand two-stroke motorbikes, all at the same time. Jack looked out into the narrow yard through the glass-panelled doors to his left. Yeah. It sure would be great. Possibilities just falling in your lap. And the girl, too.

Kim screwed the cap off the Scotch and poured Jack some more. ‘So when do you think this book is going to arrive?’

‘It already has.’

‘What?’

‘At the post office. They delivered the pick-up slip the other day.’

‘Hang on. So you could just go and get it?’

Jack nodded. ‘Yep.’

‘So … ?’

He saw the look in her eyes, could read the excitement, the sparks of possibility that her imagination flicked up like flint being struck. He recognised it. The impulse was his own. ‘They’ve been through my apartment, they’ve been through my shop. If I’d have picked it up, it would be gone by now,’ he said. ‘But while it’s there, I’ve got a bargaining chip. So the post office is the safest place for it at the moment. Nobody knows it’s there.’

‘But if they knew, could they pick it up?’

‘I don’t think so, not without the slip.’

‘Is it registered? Do you need a signature?’

‘No, but without the slip, they’d still need ID. They’d need to be me.’

‘Or get a very slack postal worker.’

Jack shrugged.

‘Always the chance,’ said Kim.

‘Still safer than my place. And anyway, they don’t know it’s there. And even if they did, the post office doesn’t open again until 9.00 a.m. tomorrow, so I’ve got some time up my sleeve.’

‘To do what?’

‘I’m still thinking.’

‘You look like you’re in pain. Maybe you should lie down.’

‘I’d hate to be rude.’

She gazed into her Scotch, swirled the glass. ‘Why not? It wouldn’t bother me.’

Jack looked at Kim Archer. He said nothing and kept looking. She did not seem to mind.

‘It wouldn’t bother me, either,’ he said and finished his drink.